


in the near-dark

by starghost



Category: Octopath Traveler (Video Game)
Genre: During Canon, Explicit Language, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together, no romance unless you want there to be, obviously therion doesn't sleep well, oh no tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:20:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starghost/pseuds/starghost
Summary: Wrapped in blankets against the cool night, the others seem to fall asleep as soon as they drop onto the hay. Therion closes his eyes. He counts out his breath. He dozes. He sits up and watches the stars, and other things. In the morning, he rises like he always does.They travel on.
Relationships: Cyrus Albright & Therion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 74





	1. tavern lights

By the time the ruby dragonstone is in his possession, Therion has gathered unlikely associates who're unlikely to screw him over — unless their morals get the better of them and they decide he's stolen one too many things. So far, he wagers they're more interested in working together (while justifying his criminal habits to themselves and each other) and that's good enough. He'll likely split before they will.

Somewhere on the trail between Noblecourt and Bolderfall, the four of them are in what passes for a tavern, in a place that generously calls itself a town. Ophilia rejoins them in the tavern after securing their rooms, or rather their space in the loft of a villager's barn, and it's only, Ophilia says, only a mile's walk to the barn. The responses to this news are no surprise:

"Only a mile! What a find, Ophilia, thanks!" Alfyn says. If the apothecary was capable of being negative, he had yet to show it.

"I'm sure that will be most satisfactory," Cyrus says, and pushes a cider across the table for her.

"A barn?" Therion says. "You couldn't find us an actual sty?"

Ophilia sounds undeterred. "Few travelers come through here in any given month, and if they stay in town, they all stay at this place. She's going to bed down the loft with fresh hay, and there are clean blankets. She said we could use the pump for as much fresh water as we like," she says. She takes a sip of her cider and makes a face at the sourness. "It's likely nicer than the last inn."

Therion had spent a long wakeful night at the last inn, but unlike most other nights, he wasn't the only one awake. Cyrus had piled his scholar's cloak over his head, and wrapped the thin pillow around his ears to try to block out the noise from the endless carousing below. When Therion prowled restlessly, as he usually did when sleep failed to come, he saw that in the other small room — they were more like closets, really — Alfyn and Ophilia tossed and turned on their hard yet lumpy beds as much as Cyrus was. And there had been a... smell. That was the best way to describe it. No way to be more specific. An unsettling, unidentifiable smell. At least with a barn, one could be certain of the smells.

Wrapped in blankets against the cool night, the others seem to fall asleep as soon as they drop onto the hay. Therion closes his eyes. He counts out his breath. He dozes. He sits up and watches the stars, and other things. In the morning, he rises like he always does.

They travel on. 

In between towns, they fend off strange beasts. Cyrus commands spells that Therion wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of, with a ferocity that his usual demeanor would never suggest. Alfyn cheerfully heals their wounds, and refuses Ophilia's help, saying that she should save her strength in case anything happens that he can't handle. Which is the darkest Alfyn gets. Ophilia keeps their spirits up in her quiet, determined way. It churns into a long stretch of none of them feeling particularly close to their goals, their reasons for leaving home. But, as Ophilia says, they are on their way. The flame is protecting and guiding them, she says. Sometimes these things take time, she says. 

Therion trudges through his days like he always has. The dragonstone is heavy in his bag. His arm feels sluggish with the bangle on it. Or maybe that's in his head. He watches himself, and doesn't notice Ophilia watching him. He's too busy making sure his daggers are as accurate as ever, that he's not getting injured more than usual, that his fingers are still nimble. Yes, he picks the others' pockets, but he also puts everything back.

In the next village, very close to Bolderfall, but not close enough to power through, they are in another tavern, with another round of drinks, and another set of plates that aren't quite full enough. Therion sits on the bench seat, so open space is on his left, and one of the group will be on his right, meaning he can leave easily and no one is behind him. This is his usual spot, whenever the tavern is arranged to allow it. Cyrus slides in next to him, and the others take the chairs across the table. None of the others have usual spots. 

After the food is eaten and when another round is depleted on the table, Cyrus has a sudden realization, and the look on his face is so entertaining that Alfyn has to put a hand over his mouth to keep from laughing. Ophilia giggles. Cyrus looks like a girl has finally given up on flirting and simply stripped down in front of him. Or possibly like an elephant has wandered into the tavern.

Therion is asleep on Cyrus's shoulder.

Therion only comes up to Cyrus's shoulder, at least when slumped in sleep; he has tipped sideways and come to rest on the padding of Cyrus's cloak over his shoulder. It happened so quietly that the others hadn't noticed him drifting off. It's not like Therion was chatty in the evenings at the best of times.

Cyrus looks at the others with a hint of panic. "What should I do?"

"Are you tired yet?" Alfyn asks.

"No..."

"Then I think you stay put and have another drink," Alfyn says with far too much amusement. He stands up, careful not to jostle the table. "I've got the next round."

Cyrus looks pleadingly at Ophilia. She shrugs. "He doesn't sleep well, you know."

"I— pardon?"

"You've shared a room with him. Didn't you notice?" she asks, still very amused by the dozing thief, but with a great deal of sympathy in her voice.

"How would I notice what happens when I myself am asleep?"

"I didn't realize until after the night in the barn," Ophilia says. "After, I became aware that it wasn't a rare night of poor sleep. He's... a bit rough, you know, so that hid it. How tired he always is." She goes quiet for a minute. Cyrus turns his head toward Therion, and sees the thief's white hair, falling over his face. Therion's hands are loose in his lap, wrists overlapping, like they fell from his usual posture of being tightly crossed over his chest. Ophilia says, "If you can bear it, for a little while."

Cyrus wants to shrug in response, but catches himself. He says, "I wasn't going anywhere."

Alfyn returns with three drinks and a bit of stale cake that breaks nicely into finger food. With the weight of Therion against him, Cyrus talks with the others. For all the days they've spent together, there's plenty that they don't yet know and are happy to share: Alfyn's wholesomely checkered past, which Cyrus has trouble seeing as anything more than a little youthful aimlessness, now redirected into his true calling of medicine; Ophilia's stories of the villagers in Flamesgrace and her obvious love of them, and of her adopted sister; Cyrus's histories and research, morphed into tales of the people he studied with and those he has taught. By the time Ophilia is fading, Cyrus has mostly forgotten that Therion sleeping on him is odd.

"I was going to — stay up with you," Ophilia says, interrupting herself with a yawn.

"I'll stay," Alfyn offers.

"No, you would only wake Ophilia by stumbling in at a later hour," Cyrus says. He considers shaking Therion awake, but thinks the thief would be quietly furious to have an audience. He slips a book from the bag next to him. "I always like to read in the evenings, anyway."

At this late hour, a few groups remain in the tavern, but it isn't too raucous. Cyrus reads only one familiar chapter before Therion shifts, then jerks away. He looks around, blinking.

"Hello," Cyrus says, closing his book. 

"What."

"You fell asleep for a bit," Cyrus says. Therion stretches without obviously stretching. 

"Obviously," he snaps. Therion has a slight imprint on the side of his face. He rubs it without thinking. "Sorry."

"For what?"

"Where are the others?"

"They went to bed, oh, approximately an hour ago," Cyrus says. "I myself could head that way as well, I suppose."

Therion feels strange. Like he woke up on a different planet. Discombobulated. He focuses, touching his daggers, like a ritual he forgot he needed. He's been in so many taverns in so many towns since the day he tried to rob Ravus Manor that studying this one does nothing to ground him. He slides out from the bench and stands, and looks back at Cyrus. Cyrus and the empty table, and the book in the scholar's hand. 

"Go on, then," Therion says, dismissively. 

"It's late," Cyrus says, collecting himself before rising. He puts an arm around Therion's shoulder, a habit that Therion hasn't yet broken him or the apothecary of, no matter how many times he slips out from under them. Cyrus says, "You, too."

Therion finds the bed in the inn comfortable, and the moon is new, so the room is dark. It's quiet, but not too quiet. Therion closes his eyes. He counts out his breath, to the time of Cyrus's. He dozes. He sits up and watches the shadows in the street, and other things. In the morning, he rises like he always does.

They travel on. 

#

In Bolderfall, Therion goes on his own to talk to the Ravus woman. That is how he chooses to think of her. The Ravus Woman. The wealthy head of the House of Ravus. The pile of money who is blackmailing him. In other circumstances, he might be entertained by her, enough to study more than her treasure. She has a mansion, inherited wealth, enough spare money to hire a monstrous regiment of guards for a fake treasure, plus a real treasure, and yet she appears to be kind. Except for the fool's bangle she had her butler clamp onto Therion, that is. A rude way to hire him. He could, after all, be bought.

During the exchange — him presenting the ruby dragonstone, the butler sharing rumors of the emerald dragonstone — the Ravus woman asks after Therion's health, in passing. He shakes it off, as he does any questions about himself, but she is not entirely shaken. He can tell from her eyes, studying him. It's not the sort of study a person gives to a questionable hire, evaluating their trustworthiness. It's more like Ophilia, when one of them is hurt. 

Therion's bag is light when he leaves, but not empty. There is, after all, no reason not to take a gilded candle snuffer from a side table. 

The others wait for Therion in the tavern in lower Bolderfall, though he told them they'd stand out as easy marks and it was probably safer if they waited in the wilds of the cliftlands, but no. Here they are. Shoved into a dark corner.

"Time to go," he says. "We can still make Quarrycrest by dark."

Alfyn laughs. "Maybe if we sprint the whole way and manage not to fall off a cliff."

Therion frowns. The cliffs are only difficult to navigate if you're alone and an idiot, but he doesn't say this. Instead he sits down, in no mood to argue. 

And if he fell off a cliff this time, at least they could put him back together.

He draws a foot up onto the bench with him. This is one of those times he doesn't mind feeling small, when he doesn't feel the need to sprawl out and insist on his physical presence. Sometimes that's because he's in theft mode, wanting to disappear. This time, he simply doesn't care. He wraps his arms around his knee and rests his chin. The others have a drink waiting for him. He watches the scant bubbles move through the imperfections of the glass.

"So you passed along the, ah, the package?" Cyrus says.

"Mmm."

"I presume your employers have guided you toward where they suspect another item to be? Or do you have research to undertake?" he asks.

Therion sits up a little, enough to say, "Black Market. Wellspring."

Ophilia blanches, but only a little. Her gray areas have expanded. She says, "Is that... Is that the sort of thing that doesn't stay anywhere long?"

"Might not," Therion says. He lowers his leg back to the ground, and leans back. When he does, he is almost hidden in Cyrus's shadow. "It rotates. It'll be there next. Probably open in the next week or so. No hurry."

The conversation meanders after that. Planning Quarrycrest. Asking Cyrus about his old friend there. Therion stops listening, and starts berating himself. What was he thinking, telling the Ravus woman not to remove the bangle? He could've been free. Or at least felt free. He still would've hunted down the next stone, probably. 

Maybe they took off the bangle, and he flexed his hand gratefully before walking away; maybe he came back that night and looted the house for real, leaving nothing behind but the two dragonstones; maybe he sold it all immediately and stowed the cash away; maybe he bought a ship with a fraction of his riches and sailed it toward an island he was going to discover and tell no one about, but in the meantime he was rocked on a boat, leaned comfortably in his seat, the sun on his face and the occasional flicker of sea spray cooling him; maybe he was free.

Maybe he is asleep again. Therion doesn't jerk awake like the time before. Sound comes back to him first. The others are at the table this time, and he stays motionless except for small blinks to fully wake himself up. Then he doesn't move. Leaned against Cyrus, nestled closely enough to smell the smoke that lingers in his cloak from their fires in the wild, Therion looks down at his own hands, so that his eyes look closed. He can see the glint of the bangle peeking from under his cloak. He tracks his breath to keep himself motionless, and listens to them talk.

"...and I barely beat the bull to the fence, vaulted right over, and kept running as fast as my little legs would carry me," Alfyn says. "I had enough scratches — and half the apples, still — that my mother knew exactly what I'd been up to. I thought for sure that time she was going to kill me! But I only had to help muck out the Hills' stable as an apology."

"And this was typical for you at this age? I can hardly imagine it," Cyrus says. Therion can feel his voice.

"Shucks, I was a rotten kid! I didn't become the cheerful man you see before you until about yesterday. Or when I became an apothecary. Whichever," Alfyn says.

"Your mother must have been relieved when you found your calling," Ophilia says. 

"Yeah."

"And it must have been hard to leave her for this journey," Ophilia adds. Alfyn takes a split second longer to respond than Therion expects.

"She died a bit over a year ago. But yeah, somehow it was hard anyway," he says, only a hair more somber than usual. Ophilia makes sad, sympathetic noises. They had all learned her story when they met in Flamesgrace — her parents killed long ago, and her adoption by the bishop. The air stirs, and points toward Cyrus, as Therion wonders if they're all orphans. But Cyrus says nothing. He quietly breathes underneath Therion, and then Therion is waking up again, because he heard his name.

"...about Therion?" Cyrus says.

"That's one option. If we find out where the tome is and can't get it any other way, I'm sure Therion'd have no trouble," Alfyn says.

"If you're talking about a cursed tome of dark magic, I'd rather not touch the damned thing," Therion says, without moving. Alfyn laughs.

"Okay, well, we'll get some gloves," he says. All of them adopt a casual pretense that Therion hadn't been out cold on Cyrus's shoulder, and Therion sits up and joins the conversation. He pretends that he isn't comfortable enough with them to fall asleep in public, in lower Bolderfall, of all places. Over the next hours, they discuss every minute detail of their trip to Quarrycrest in the morning: speculating on every possibility that comes to mind, every danger and turn, every nook they might explore to find rumors of this missing book, until they're sure that nothing will catch them off-guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe I've spent too long under a shelter-in-place order but I became obsessed with the image of Therion falling asleep on a befuddled Cyrus about two weeks ago then this fic happened.
> 
> I took some liberties with canon, but canon is still fit for respectable society. Will mention plot developments through most of the Chapter 3s, but only hints of Chapter 4s.
> 
> (no beta because how do you find a beta these days in a fandom none of your friends are in?)
> 
> ilu tiny angry thief.


	2. sunlight

Quarrycrest is noisy during the day, and quiet at night. Miners there work hard from dawn to dusk, hammers pounding and all manner of machine thrumming, and when it wraps up, there's but a short stretch of noisy relaxation before exhaustion and quiet sets in. With the long shifts, and the job-seekers from all lands, Quarrycrest has its share of nooks and secrets; in his hunt for the lost tome of dark magic, Cyrus is, to say the least, caught off-guard.

Therion is used to sleepless nights. He's used to prowling dark cities. He's used to coming back to the inn when the night is darkest, and slipping in the window. He is not used to returning to find Cyrus still awake. The moon is nearly new, but Cyrus is lit by a single, low candle set on the windowsill, just where Therion would like to enter. Despite Therion crouching fully in sight, Cyrus doesn't seem to see him on the narrow balcony, so he knocks on the frame of the open window.

Cyrus startles, then scrambles to move the candle. "Oh! Therion. My apologies. I was, I was up reading and lost track of..." 

He gives up on the lie, realizing that there's no book near him. Not much of anything. Therion passes through the window without the slightest creak of wood. He pulls his hood down, and sits on his bed to take off his boots, while Cyrus acts like he wasn't staring into the darkness, picturing the body hanging from the cellar wall, or every drop of blood, or the color of those blood crystals. 

"Can't sleep?" Therion says. 

"Preoccupied," Cyrus says, putting the candle back on the windowsill, then sinking onto his bed. 

"A scene like that'll haunt you," Therion says evenly. 

"Will it keep you up?"

As he removes his cloak, Therion disappears behind it for a moment. He drapes it over the end of his bed. "No," Therion says. "Plenty of other things already do that job."

"Not in the tavern," Cyrus says, trying to grin.

"Heh. No. But you usually sleep well."

"A night's scant rest won't hurt me in the long run," Cyrus says. It's what he told himself two hours ago. It sounds more true now, saying it to someone else.

"Heard that one," Therion says.

"How do you do it? Not sleeping?"

"I sleep enough. I guess it's rare to catch me. Old habit, being a light sleeper. Couldn't let anyone rustle through my things... once I got some," Therion says. 

Cyrus wraps his arms around himself like he's cold. He'd never thought of it that way. That he could sleep so fully himself because he never once worried about his own safety in slumber. At school, boarding with other children, they had little that was unique. The teachers and guardians kept them in line so rigidly that very few ever considering stealing from the other children. More than belongings, it never would have occurred to him to suspect someone might break in, or wish him harm. It was all theoretical, danger. 

Not so, now.

When they returned to the inn, Cyrus had changed into a new shirt. The old shirt has blood on it. Alfyn says it'll come out. Blood, on the cuffs from picking something up in a puddle of it, in splotches across the collar and front when he lifted a still-breathing victim. 

But breathing, he thinks.

It would be easier to console himself if they had found the real tome. Not a copy. Not another step in this wild hunt.

"I do get tired, though," Therion says, recapturing Cyrus's attention. His voice is soft in the near-dark. 

"Well," Cyrus says, giving Therion a slightly more authentic grin this time. "Find me in the tavern anytime."

Therion laughs, and blows out the candle. "Go to sleep, Albright."

#

Therion falls asleep in the flickering lights and low rumble of the pub again. And again. He starts to expect it. He doesn't remember the last time in his life he slept as deeply as he does on Cyrus's shoulder. Childhood? If he can remember childhood properly. He'd gotten used to half-sleep and small bursts, but maybe because he hadn't known what he was missing. Someday he might trade back. For now — he accepts the small jokes from the others, and is shameless about curling up in the corner. Once, he wakes to find himself almost entirely hidden by Cyrus's cloak, like he was burrowing away from the light. 

When they get to Wellspring, Therion feels good. Cocky, though he tells himself not to be cocky. Cocky got him a bangle on his arm. But who is he, if not the best damn thief on the continent? About to go into a den of his own kind? He gets masks for all of them to enter the strange bazaar, though he tells the others not to stay too close. A group would be noticed. He wants the back-up, just in case, but it should be trivial, a matter of lifting the stone when the seller — or buyer — isn't expecting it.

Except the seller is killed, no buyer is to be had, and the murdering bandits are led by a ghost from Therion's nightmares.

Just like in the nightmares, Darius walks away like Therion is a piece of trash to leave in the gutter, rather than his partner. Former partner. And just like in the nightmares, Therion is screaming after him. 

When Darius vanishes deeper into the caves outside of Wellspring, he leaves his new partner behind to kill Therion. Can't even be bothered to do it himself, this time. Therion jumps the man with daggers drawn and thirsty, heedless of the shadows growing along the sides — shadows that turn into more men, shadows that pull Therion off and knee him in the gut, punch him in the jaw to leave his head spinning, throw him heaving on the ground and come at him again with feet and fists. In a brief respite, in which Therion spits blood, he hears slow footsteps, sees the play of light that means a knife is coming for him. 

He manages to wheeze, "You're not his partner —  _ lackey _ ," before the man kicks him in the gut. 

Over Therion, collapsed on the ground, comes a blast of heat and crackling lightning. The spell sends all the bandits diving for cover, and gives Therion a chance to crawl away — right to Ophilia as she runs up to him. Cyrus and Alfyn take turns, blasting magic, jumping forward with a swinging axe, while Ophilia lays hands on Therion. She tuts, and prays, and for the first time, he feels what the power of Aelfric can mean. 

A cool peace fills him. His pain eases, and the taste of honey rises from nowhere, or a honeyed smell so strong it covers his tongue, or the memory of a field of flowers, or sunlight filtering over water that spills from his tongue, overcoming the tang of blood between his teeth. Strange, and powerful. Within the cool healing is a blinding pain in his lungs, slowly fading. Something broken, made unbroken. 

Ophilia gasps with waning effort over him, before he grabs her hands.

"Good enough," he says, and pulls her to her feet with him. "Save it for them."

After that, it's easy enough to dispatch the bandits, and he can find no mercy to spare.

Before they head back to Wellspring, Therion glances toward the far darkness of the cave, where Darius had sauntered away. He grips his daggers hard enough to hurt. The nearly-healed break in his ribs doesn't hurt as much as the falling sensation in his chest, so starkly remembered he can almost hear the wind.

#

Therion doesn't join them in the tavern that evening. Alfyn sighs and says something about a return to form. Ophilia makes a small sad sound, but claims not to be worried. Cyrus stays for a drink, then two, and some food, before he says he needs to stretch his legs. Ever since Quarrycrest, he has slept a little more poorly, startling half-awake when Therion slips in or out of the room. It takes him more time to fall asleep. A long walk helps more than a long book, which is a change that Cyrus isn't sure he likes. He knew how it worked, before. Reading until he falls asleep, running the risk of waking up with ink on his face, that's who he  _ is _ . Or was. So when he needs to stretch his legs by walking the entire oasis of Wellspring, it's largely in the hopes that he'll sleep that night.

But not entirely.

He rounds the south end of the oasis when he spots Therion. Past the closing-up merchant stalls, past the first stretch of poor soil, cracked from the sun during the dry season. A few sad-looking palms stand as thin shadows against the growing night, and peeking out from one is the shadow of the thief. His hood is up despite the lingering heat. Hiding, Cyrus suspects, his white hair, which would make him easier to spot in the fading light.

As he approaches, Cyrus doesn't call out to Therion, or say anything to warn of his approach. He suspects footsteps are good enough for that.

When he comes level with Therion, Cyrus looks out at the vast desert beyond, and the dying sunset. The colors seem washed out. Therion makes a small sound to acknowledge his presence. Cyrus has questions. He always does. That part of his nature isn't changed. He wants to know who Darius is, and why they heard Therion scream his name when they were chasing after him in the caves. He wants to know why Therion cursed so much when they knew they'd lost the emerald dragonstone, when it was just a stone, and they could follow it on. He wants to know if Therion knows how close to death he looked when Ophilia got to him. He wants to know what Therion wants to do now.

When the last of the sunlight is gone, and there is nothing left to see, Cyrus finally says, "Come have something to eat."

They are both restless through the night, but the night passes.

#

In Bolderfall, Alfyn, Ophilia, and Cyrus wait, again, in the tavern that lies in the lower district. Therion has his own business and insists, sharply, that it remain that way. 

"I'm mystified by you, Alfyn," Cyrus says, after they discuss Ophilia's next duties as Flamebringer. She is in no hurry to attend to her next stops; the flame, she says, will keep while she assists in good causes. She seems to include Therion in those causes.

"What d'ya mean?" Alfyn asks.

"You have no particular duties or cause that you seek, do you?" Cyrus asks. "Ophilia has her flame, Therion has his employment via blackmail, and I have a research task that is an increasingly worrying puzzle."

"No cause?" Alfyn says. He pretends outrage, gesturing with his glass. "The world is my cause! I'm out to help whoever needs it, and though Ophilia here has her exceptional talents, all of you need a whole lot of healing, and I can't leave her to run herself ragged. Not to mention the little illnesses and injuries I suss out and help with in the towns we visit."

"You do?"

"What d'ya think I do all day when you're researching and whatnot?" Alfyn takes a swig from his glass and chuckles. "The things you don't notice, I swear."

When Therion arrives, he sits in a chair and nurses an ale. His mind seems to be elsewhere. Occasionally, one of the others will catch him staring, and when they meet his eyes, it takes a moment for him to look away. Alfyn feels suspiciously like he's being cased, but that feeling makes no sense to him. After one too many odd looks and strange smirks, he gets up abruptly from the table and claims they need more drinks, because he knows he's about to ask Therion the type of question that he  _ knows _ will make Therion edge away and lie and be brittle for two days. He experienced that enough in the first weeks they were together. Once it had very nearly made Therion leave. Alfyn thought it  _ had _ . But Therion reappeared by Alfyn's side before nightfall. He thought the falling asleep in the pub meant something, but maybe not. 

Alfyn stands at the bar, acting like he can't get the bartender's attention. Sometimes he wishes there were something he could do to fix whatever made Therion so jumpy. The others, they didn't need that caution. Ophilia astonished him, after he learned about her parents, and how sick her adopted father was — and yet she was so kind and giving. 

Right when Alfyn is about to actually flag down the bartender, Therion is at his side.

"Hey," Therion says.

"What, do you think I can't handle four glasses?" Alfyn jokes, glancing over.

"Four? What are we going to drink?"

"Oh, you can kid around now? We all missed your constant jokes the past few days." Alfyn signals for four drinks, then faces Therion again.

"Look. You've been traveling with me for a while, and helping with some shit," Therion says. Even joking, he keeps a straight face, so Alfyn isn't sure how serious he's being. "I don't know if I'd be here if you weren't around."

"Shucks, Therion. I'm just helpin' out a friend," Alfyn says.

"We weren't friends," Therion says, and with a glance they both half-acknowledge the way he phrased it.  _ Weren't _ . 

"I've got your back. We've got to get that thing off you, right? Hope that Ravus lady told you where to hunt next," Alfyn says. The drinks slide in front of them, and Alfyn grabs two. 

Therion gives a small, dangerous smile before he grabs the other glasses. "Yeah. I know just the place."

#

That is the last Therion says of it for quite some time. He is patient for the next stones, and they are far away. But he begins to look tired again, even as his demeanor softens. Not soft, none of them would say soft, but like calcite is softer than diamonds. Calcite with bags back under his eyes. In Bolderfall, his conversation with the Ravus woman was shockingly helpful, considering he was admitting failure. He never cared if the Ravus woman trusted him, but her little speech rang in his mind during his whole slow meander down to the pub where the others waited for him. It's them, he realized.

So Therion finds a strange ease as they travel, slowly, to Cyrus's next research destination, where the scholar believes he'll be able to shed light onto his dark mystery. When it becomes clear that sussing out the right bookbinder will take some time, Cyrus insists that they travel on with Ophilia to light the flame at Goldshore.

While Ophilia meets with a nervous bishop, and Alfyn soothes a plague that's not a plague, Therion bounces between the two of them, helping where he can. Alfyn keeps insisting that he doesn't need Therion's help, what does a thief know of healing a cough? But Therion brings him food when he forgets to eat, and finds him a sharper, leaner axe to swing before he goes off into the caves in search of an ingredient for a remedy. Therion would've gone with him if not for the revelation that Ophilia's nervous bishop has a missing daughter, and things get more complicated, and more complicated, and Therion hates this town, he hates the way it makes Alfyn feel sad and useless, the way it makes Ophilia see the dark side of belief. 

He doesn't snipe at either of them for their innocence. He offers his daggers. 

He's too far away to do anything when Ophilia falls to the ground. He's too far away to catch up to her sister with the stolen flame. He is only close enough to see the light of the flame disappear at the docks.

Therion sits with Alfyn by Ophilia's bed, waiting for the last of the drug to wear off. She is bleary, but awake. She has stopped crying. She doesn't want to talk about her sister, or the missing flame, or the news of her adopted father's death. She says she knew he was unwell, and that's that.

"I hope Cyrus had better luck than we did," Alfyn says.

"How dangerous can bookbinding be?" Therion asks. 

But that night, with plans to return to Stonegard in the morning, Therion dozes, and wakes, and looks out at the quiet, horrible, seaside town. He remembers that the title of the book Cyrus searches for is  _ From the Far Reaches of Hell _ . He pictures the scholar's guileless investigations. And he keeps picturing the dungeon they found in Quarrycrest.

In the morning, Ophilia is still bleary, and Therion hasn't slept well in a week, and Alfyn is running low on herbs that are plentiful along their path, but they don't stop for sleep or harvest.

Cyrus is not at the inn.

Cyrus is not at the tavern.

Cyrus is nowhere.

Alfyn calmly and cheerfully talks his way through the town like a ship breaking through ocean waves, until he hears about a girl who also showed up, a little too curious. She was going, according to the woman who sold her a little sword, to the boarded up ancestral home of Yvon Sommer. 

She just left, in fact.

"Shit!" Therion says when Alfyn finds him. 

"This is the same Yvon who you said —" Ophilia asks, already following them up the rocky stairs.

"Unceremoniously kicked Cyrus out of town, yeah," Alfyn says. "I reckon it is."

They stare up at an imposing, dusty, boarded up mansion. The door is cracked open.

"What are we waiting for?" Therion asks. "Let's—"

A scream comes from inside, cascading from a man's voice to something that tears at the air. They run for the door.

#

They all stay in one room for the night, with no plan to sleep. It isn't discussed; it simply happens. Alfyn says that Cyrus shouldn't sleep for a few hours, not with that blow to the head. Therion offers to stay up and watch him — he'd be up anyway, he argues — but Alfyn says something about the duties of an apothecary. Ophilia clings to Therion's arm, but not in a way that suggests she's too tired to help herself. If anyone sleeps tonight it'll be a miracle, Therion thinks as he goes to fetch some food from the tavern.

Therion watches the others more than he lets on. No reason they should know these things. That he pays that much attention for any reason but theft. That he sometimes thinks of them as so innocent that they could be broken by the sight of blood. But no, it was far more than that. It wasn't just blood, not just another monster or bastard they stopped. This was a man, someone who Cyrus had worked with — butted heads with, yes, but how mild that is in comparison — who delved into the darkest magics and destroyed himself. In the end, he destroyed himself. The power of Ophilia's light had hurt the man, but it had also shown him to be fracturing as he tried to destroy them. There were fissures in his skin, like his insides were too much for even the hardened exterior that dark magic had given him. His eyes glowed, and bled. And he'd screamed, spewing spittle, tendons straining, mostly from fury, but also pain. 

He'd been a man, once.

Cyrus sits up with a book, but he doesn't turn the pages often enough.

Alfyn watches Cyrus, and re-organizes the contents of his satchel six times.

Ophilia leans on the wall by Alfyn and murmurs with him intermittently.

Therion watches as each of them doze off, now and then, and wake again. Even Cyrus, after Alfyn checks him over, looking in his bloodshot eyes, and says that he should be fine. Cyrus lays down in a bed. He startles awake more violently than the others, then settles to a stillness deeper than when he slept. 

Therion recognizes the move.

But in the end, he doesn't do anything, because there's nothing anyone can do for the nightmares you give yourself, he thinks. He looks back to the window and watches for dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things get worse before they get better, but sleepy times are coming soon, don't you fret.
> 
> if you fought a demonic version of your ex-boss who you kind of hated, would you just be chill and cool after, or would you maybe be traumatized? just a little?


	3. candlelight

After leaving Stonegard, they camp between towns. It's possible that they could have made it to an outpost, or even to the town of Cobbleston if they had pushed hard all day, but they didn't. Instead, Cyrus gathers firewood while Ophilia settles their campsite; Alfyn forages and does a little hunting in one direction, and Therion in another. The roots and a large rat they return with make for a meager dinner, but it's better than other nights. Cyrus returns to find that Ophilia has made up each of their bedrolls with a padding of soft grasses and leaves and moss, and at that realization his throat tightens. Even without the flame, she brings a little light with her, he thinks. 

Around the fire, they are silent. There has been altogether too much silence through this day.

"We know we're going north," Therion says at last. "At some point we'll have to be more specific than that."

"I'm sure that I should get the flame back from Lia—" Ophilia cuts herself off with a break in her voice. "But that tome Cyrus is looking for seems so dangerous."

"My thing is least urgent," Therion agrees. Alfyn and Ophilia look at him curiously, but Cyrus only gives him a sideways glance. "Cyrus?"

"I don't know," Cyrus says. He runs his hand through his hair, and winces when his fingers skim the bandage at the back of his head. It stings, and throbs dully, and both sensations shoot deep into his skull. He keeps one eye closed in the wince when he repeats, "I don't know."

The noises of the night that follow Cyrus's statement would be soothing in a different situation. Now they emphasize the lack of response, and Cyrus's lack of certainty, which is a new feeling that he doesn't like. 

"We can delay a decision for one more night, surely," Cyrus says. "I'm tired. If you don't mind, I'm going to turn in."

"Mind? Hell, it's a good idea. I'm beat," Alfyn says, though he doesn't sound nearly as tired. They settle slowly, with rustling and fidgeting, repositioning a cloak as a pillow, a huff of breath when someone turns over, and Therion sits up to poke at the fire as it quiets. His bedroll is ready behind him.

Cyrus faces the dark, and closes his eyes. No matter how he sleeps, the smallest wrong movement will press against the bandage. A strike perfectly placed for torture. Every time the wound throbs, he feels a throb of anger. At the same time, he feels lucky to be alive, to have been saved. The horrors and betrayals that he's seen aren't enough to keep him tossing and turning at this stage of weariness, and he falls into sleep before Therion moves from the fire.

Weariness doesn't stop dreams, though.

Cyrus jolts awake, half jumping up, and gasps into the dark. 

"Okay," he pants, barely a word. His eyes focus on what they can. The outlines of trees and rocks. His companions. Not the tall walls of an oubliette. Not a slavering monster. "The trail. Right. Yes."

Looking around, Cyrus figures that at least he didn't shout. No one else is sitting up. He lays back down.

The second nightmare makes him sit up and stare at the embers of their fire. His mouth tastes sharp, even after a swig of water, and he can feel the cooling sweat on his skin. Maybe sleeping isn't the best choice. Once, he spoke to a researcher, over drinks at a university event, who claimed to study madness. This researcher told Cyrus that she had seen cases of madness in prisoners, madness which by all accounts was induced by the guards depriving the prisoners of sleep. But wasn't it likely that as prisoners and criminals they were predisposed toward instability and madness? No, the researcher said. That's a common belief but she believed her years of study were proving it unfounded. Now Cyrus wishes he had thought to ask the woman how long it took before madness set in.

"Do you think it goes both ways? Or would we need a pub to be sure?" Therion asks, suddenly crouched by Cyrus's side. Or he might have been there for a while, with how softly the thief moves. His shoulder presses against Cyrus's. 

"I fall asleep perfectly fine," Cyrus says.

"The trick is staying asleep," Therion says. He pulls his sleeves over his knuckles, crosses his arms on his knees, perfectly balanced in a squat. Looking into the barely glowing embers, he says, "I remembered something just now."

"Mmm?"

Therion pauses a long time, like he's changed his mind about whatever he was going to say. Then he settles in more fully, dropping to crossed legs, and leaning back on his hands so his voice comes from just behind Cyrus's shoulder. "When I was very small, I spent a little time in an orphan's home," Therion says. Cyrus is so startled to be receiving a fact, a  _ story _ of Therion's life, that he half-turns his head. He freezes when he hears Therion hesitate, a caught word in his throat. A moment passes, and Cyrus doesn't move. Then: "Every kid has nightmares. Doesn't matter why. This place, I wasn't the only one who ever had 'em. But I might've been the only one screaming every night. A woman who worked at the home — gods, she must've been a girl, really — she'd come over to stop me screaming, and leave me to the dark.... One night, she stayed."

Therion does go quiet now. Cyrus wonders what this is all about. What Therion meant by talking about this girl.

Then Cyrus is being tugged by an arm back onto his bedroll. Therion sits down by his head. When Therion hunches over, he looks straight down into Cyrus's eyes, upside-down, At this angle, his hair hangs out of his face, but it's too dark to see much more than that. 

"What happened?" Cyrus asks.

Therion leans back a little. "I slept, eventually. Then I had to leave. I never saw her again. Or maybe I did, and didn't know her. I was only six, and having nightmares, anyway. Doesn't matter. This is what I remembered," Therion says, and doesn't give Cyrus a chance to ask about his age or why a six-year-old would have to leave, or so many things. Therion puts his fingers on Cyrus's head, splayed on his forehead and temples. 

"Go to sleep, Albright," he says, stroking Cyrus's tormented head. If Cyrus hears Therion start to hum a small song, it might be a dream.

#

The shift in Therion in the recent weeks has many good aspects, but a severe lack: he does not sleep any better, and he's gone back to suffering through it. Not on purpose, or out of a misguided conviction that if he feels a little more driven, a little less broken, then he should be able to deal with it. It's not that conscious. But he stays up, and makes plans while the others sleep; he declares any new plan in the morning, leads them on and on, making sure their pockets are all full, and one day it makes him sick.

They stop in a very small town north of Atlasdam, and Alfyn declares it a pesky fever, but nothing he can't handle if they just rest for a minute. Therion's fever makes him sweat, even as he scowls and denies he's sick, but he doesn't fight Alfyn until it comes to sleepweed. He refuses it on sight, and refuses a separate concoction Alfyn gives him because he can smell the sleepweed hidden in it, too. 

Soon, though, his aching head is keeping him from even the smallest rest. Convinced by Alfyn that a headache remedy alone won't do enough, Therion sips the mixture, which tastes of licorice and mint and bitter greens, thinking that maybe it's worth a little relief, what sleepweed does to him.

"Cyrus," Therion hisses, shortly after. "Cyrus, c'mere."

"Why aren't you asleep yet?" Alfyn asks, more to himself than to Therion, who is not listening. 

"Cyrus, c'mere. Tell 'em to go away," Therion says, tugging at Cyrus's arm when he gets close.

"Therion, lie down," Alfyn says. Therion scowls at him and waves his free hand dismissively. 

"Don't tell me what to do. Go 'way," Therion says.

"What else was in that drink?" Ophilia whispers to Alfyn. Alfyn rubs his face.

"He could have told me sleepweed did this! I woulda come up with something else," Alfyn says. 

"A reaction to the herb?" Ophilia asks. Meanwhile, Cyrus is being manhandled by Therion, but with a lack of grace that is unusual for the thief — though not surprising in the moment. Cyrus tries to stay standing as he pulled into a strange crouch.

"I've seen it before, sort of like he's already dreaming. It's funnier the first time," Alfyn says, looking down at Therion. "It'll take him a while to sleep, but he's fine." 

Alfyn moves toward the door of the room, tugging Ophilia with him. Cyrus tries to step toward them, but Therion yanks him back and says, "No, c'mere."

"Alfyn!" Cyrus pleads. Alfyn shrugs.

"If he doesn't sleep, come get me. Seems easier to give him what he wants till then, and there's no harm." 

Looking at the scholar and the sleepweed-addled thief, Alfyn grins widely and shuts the door.

"Well, this is a delightful situation," Cyrus says to no one. Therion pulls at him again, and Cyrus gives up. He sits on the bed. "They've gone, Therion. What is it?"

"You," Therion says, sitting cross-legged and sideways to face Cyrus, "are very tall."

"I wouldn't say very," Cyrus says.

"No, no, you are. It's good," Therion says. He leans forward so his forehead presses against Cyrus's shoulder. "See?"

Cyrus laughs, wearily. "I'm glad my height has a benefit to you, though I didn't realize it at the time."

"I can't live like that," Therion says, sitting up with his hands still tangled around Cyrus's arm. "I can't, you know, depend on that sort of thing. I can't need it. Stopped that, didn't I?"

"Oh, Therion," Cyrus says. He is about to say something foolishly sentimental that the thief probably wouldn't remember, but before he can, Therion holds up Cyrus's pocketwatch. Which he keeps latched inside a buttoned pocket. Cyrus snatches it back. Therion smirks, all himself again if not for the tilt in his posture.

"Okay, good," Therion says, rubbing his now-empty fingers together. He blinks a long, slow blink. "Y'know, when this is over..." He trails off, staring into space. Cyrus supposes their journey will be over, someday. Soon. The thought stings. Then Therion comes back again, focusing on Cyrus. "Give me that."

He points at a pillow half-crushed behind Cyrus. Cyrus shifts his weight and tugs it free. When Therion has the pillow, he shakes and fluffs it, punches it in new shapes, then, quite suddenly, the pillow is in Cyrus's lap, and Therion's head is on the pillow, cheeks flushed and eyes closed. In moments, he seems to be asleep, curled on his side. 

Cyrus would be a monster to try and move. This, he thinks, is a strange recurring circumstance. Part of him wants to try to grab a book, but he stops himself before moving, not wanting to disturb Therion. It's the least he can do, after all. There's no real reason the thief should help as much as he has, over and over, both in battle and not.

Cyrus thinks of his mind as a storehouse of knowledge, facts spilling over themselves in their eagerness to line up and recombine into revelations. Some facts, when aligned, lead to conclusions that Cyrus doesn't care for, but he hardly thinks not liking something is a reason to deny the truth of it. Cyrus has a goal: return a dangerous book to safekeeping. When it is completed, he supposes he'll return to his position at Atlasdam. Ophilia has a goal: find her sister safely, and complete her duties as Flamebearer. After which, Cyrus knows she'll return to her home, and perhaps work in the church until she ascends to bishop. Cyrus is not a religious man, but he believes that Ophilia would be a credit to the church and all the gods in such a position. Alfyn, well, Alfyn will probably wander around as an apothecary for a while yet, before settling down. Cyrus imagines Alfyn with a passel of kids around him, some of them his own, a jovial and wise apothecary in some peaceful town. And Therion, well, Cyrus knows there are two stones between Therion and freedom, and they're both somewhere in the north, in the hands of that Darius figure. 

When they all have what they want, there's no reason for them to travel together. They'll go home, wherever home might be. 

Cyrus does not like this conclusion, but those are the facts.

In the burnished evening light, Cyrus imagines his life in Atlasdam with a hand idly resting a hand on Therion's chest as it rises and falls, and he waits for Alfyn's return.

#

They reach a busy town with an inn that only has single rooms available. It makes for a more expensive night, but Alfyn insists that sleeping under the stars is not an option when Therion is barely recovered from that fever and look at the sky, he says, look at it, do you think it's not going to rain tonight? To make up for the cost, Therion wanders through the town's surprisingly lively night life and looks for marks. He only takes advantage of a couple. He's feeling semi-reformed. 

Therion stays out late, like usual, and finds himself sitting under a wide eave during a short-lived rain. The cool air the rain brings makes him aware how thin his boots are, and how they need resoling. And how tired he still is, moreso after his illness. But thank the gods that Alfyn had been there, and Ophilia too. Thank the gods, he thinks again, and scratches the edge of the fool's bangle. He has a vague recollection of embarrassing himself after taking sleepweed, but it hardly bothers him. When he woke up he was, for a moment, rested. He remembers little from those hours, and some of it might even have happened — stealing an antique, demanding that Ophilia turn off the stars, blatantly falling asleep while curled up against Cyrus.

Back at the inn, he looks at his narrow room, which is almost entirely taken up by a disproportionate bed. There's a single window over the bed, with a curtain that doesn't quite cover it. Noises filter in from outside. The bed is cold. He lies down to stare at the ceiling for three minutes (remembering the tavern; remembering the firelight; remembering the sleepweed) before getting up again. He doesn't bother to put on his boots, and exits through the window.

The exterior of the building has a small lip that Therion easily clings to. He counts his way two windows down, and peeks in the gap of the curtain to make sure, before jiggling the window open as quietly as he can. He has plenty of practice.

"Hrm?" Cyrus barely stirs when Therion slips in the bed next to him.

"Go back to sleep, Albright," Therion says, then lays his head on Cyrus's shoulder. Cyrus's arm curls around him, and his breath deepens back to sleep.

The shifting of light before dawn wakes Therion, and he is gone.

The next night, the next town, they're back to two shared rooms between the group. Therion returns from a late prowl around the town to find Cyrus in bed, nodding off over a book with a candle guttering on the table. Therion looks at the empty bed that is meant to be his, then glances at Cyrus, who is watching him. 

"Please don't pretend," Cyrus says, setting the book aside. 

"What?"

Then Cyrus's calm is cracked, and he stumbles over his words. "I... There are times... It's a..." He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair like it clears his head. "I find you comforting, too. What can it hurt to take solace in these nights where we can?"

Therion twists the fool's bangle around his wrist until it hurts. The candle sputters out, and in the moment when they're both blind, he says, "Because it ends."

Cyrus is a deep sigh in the dark. Therion blinks desperately until his eyes begin to adjust and wants to take back his words.

"But not tonight," Cyrus says. They are both faint shapes. Cyrus, with a hand out. Therion does not take it. He sits, to remove his boots and daggers, to prepare for another attempt at sleep, and he does this in the silence of small movements. 

It has been months of travel since Therion first met Alfyn. Then Cyrus, then Ophilia. Months that he's been surrounded by their damnably good hearts, their cheer, their faith. Months when they have taken care of him, and he has fought like wild for them. All things do end — dramatically, or painfully, or maybe simply with small changes over time. Undetectable, like the moment you finally fall asleep, but undeniable.

In the dark, he hears Cyrus start to lay down, and Therion says, "Not tonight."

He leaves his things strewn over what should be his bed. There's none of the weathered softness of Cyrus's smoky cloak, or the strange comfort of sleeping in a busy tavern. It's like any other night, except he can feel Cyrus breathing. It's like any other night, except Therion sleeps.

In the morning, they will journey on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my darlings, it's so good and healthy to almost talk about your feelings, and very good to sleep on top of your friends
> 
> if you optionally choose to read this as a pairing, I fully support you and would like to hear your critical analysis of when, precisely, each of them fell in love with the other
> 
> thank you for reading


End file.
